


a simple plot (but i know one thing)

by stitchingatthecircuitboard



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, So there you go, but i also wrote that batfam karaoke thing, possibly the most ridiculous thing i've written, the one with the dogs; an unstoppable knitting habit; and an etsy shop, warnings for terrible characterization i apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:08:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchingatthecircuitboard/pseuds/stitchingatthecircuitboard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I may have made some hats,” Jason says in a rush, “and, um, possibly some capelets. And booties. And — aw, c’mon, don’t look at me like that, Croissant gets really fricking cold and Taco loves to run around in the park, I had to make stuff to keep her warm —”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a simple plot (but i know one thing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [defcontwo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/gifts).
  * Inspired by [your time will come (if you wait for it)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006893) by [defcontwo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo). 



> this is for sam, because of everything, but especially because of wonderful & sustained conversations about dogs, etsy shops, aaaaaand that amazing prompt of hers that i still haven't filled, i'm sorry, i fucked up, accept this humble offering as a placeholder, i implore you.
> 
> sam is the one who came up with taco, in [this glorious series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/62398), which is about a million times better than this fic, go read it now.
> 
> [title from coldplay's "up with the birds"]

“Okay,” Tim huffs, “okay, almost there —”

Jason grumbles on his shoulder, white forelock tickling at Tim’s ear. Tim fumbles the key to their apartment, manages to unlock the door and toe it open, and lurch awkwardly inside, fiercely glad that they no longer live at the Manor. Yes, it would mean more bodies to help get a barely-awake Jason to bed, but it would also mean suspiciously focused training exercises and Damian’s sneer for at least a week, and really, life is better without both.

“You’re too heavy for this,” Tim says reprovingly, shifting Jason’s arm around his shoulders. “And besides, _I’m_ the one who gets to pull all nighters, jerk, you’re like twice my size, this is _completely_ unfair, c’mon —”

He shoves Croissant’s roomba out of the way with one foot, shifting awkwardly.

“Asshole,” he mutters, unable to totally keep the fondness from his voice, “c’mon, god, why are you half-giant, have you never heard of coffee, let’s—”

He stops at the doorway to their bedroom, because — because, well, there isn’t really any way to make this situation work, because Taco and Croissant are sprawled and sleeping in the middle of his and Jason’s bed. Croissant’s paws twitch against the blanket, her bat-like ears pricked in whatever chase she’s dreaming of; Taco opens one eye, thumps the bed with her tail, and closes it again. It’s pretty obvious that neither is going anywhere even if Tim had the heart to uproot them, and for two reasonably sized-dogs — well, they take up a surprising amount of space.

“Right,” Tim mutters, and immediately regrets speaking as Croissant twitches again, _what if he wakes her_ , and shifts Jason on his shoulder. Jason mumbles agreeably, and Tim closes the door softly behind them. “You really can sleep anywhere,” he observes. “I’m impressed.”

The couch will have to do. Tim gets them over and tries to set Jason down as gently as possible, but his shoulder’s almost asleep and unused to hauling around people for this long, and, fuck it, it’s been a long night even without crime fighting, it’s been a long week. Going to get spare blankets, Tim decides he’s allowed to feel a little sorry for himself, and feels better. He opens the closet door.

Actually — no, make that a _lot_ sorry for himself, Tim thinks, standing in what is best described as an avalanche of knitwear of various shape, color, and application. He counts to ten, glances back at Jason (somehow shifted into a face-plant on the couch), and stretches his hands for the blankets. It can wait until morning.

 

By the time Tim has woken, showered, and ingested a questionable amount of coffee, the avalanche of knitwear has vanished. He squints at the closed closet door for a few seconds, thinking maybe he dreamt it up, maybe he wasn’t the one half-dead from exhaustion, and he almost believes it — not like it’s unprecedented — but Jason has a suspiciously guilty flush at the tips of his ears, and he won’t quite meet Tim’s eyes when Tim looks away from the closet.

“Jason,” Tim says slowly, “exactly how many sweaters have you made for the dogs?”

“Well,” Jason hedges, “not a huge number. Nothing ridiculous.”

Tim frowns.

“I may have made some hats,” Jason says in a rush, “and, um, possibly some capelets. And booties. And — aw, c’mon, don’t look at me like that, Croissant gets really fricking cold and Taco loves to run around in the park, I had to make stuff to keep her warm —”

“Okay,” Tim says agreeably, and goes to the closet. “So, if I open this…”

Jason winces. Tim drops his hand from the doorknob. 

Scrubbing a hand back through his hair, Jason admits, “Okay, so, it’s possible I was hoping that this conversation could be postponed until I’d found a solution already and that I, um, just kind of shoved everything back in because you were waking up and. Yeah.”

The tips of his ears are bright red, and his hands are shoved into his pockets, and he’s peering up hopefully through his lashes and it’s ridiculous, frankly, that he let Tim into his life, and that he’s somehow able to perfectly and charmingly replicate Taco’s shit i fucked up i’m sorry i love you i’m adorable and you love me too, right? look, and that he can purl a perfect row as easily as punch a mugger’s lights out, and that he still kind of looks at Tim like he can’t believe his luck, for all that they’ve been living together for a year and have dogs and routines and mix up each other’s laundry by accident, maybe. Everything about Jason is ridiculous, and the same can be said for himself, Tim knows, and the goofy smile that’s fighting its way to the surface, so he comes back into the kitchen and presses into Jason’s side, drops a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and rests there quietly for a moment.

“What about that shelter where you brought Taco?” he says after a minute, tilting his head back to catch Jason’s eye. “Would they be interested in doggie sweaters?”

Jason smiles, smiles with his whole face in the way that he rarely does, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’ll drop by later,” he says.

 

The shelter is not interested in the doggie sweaters, capelets, hats, and booties that Jason has produced over the last few months. “They don’t have the space for it,” Jason says, staring tragically at the knitwear-filled tubs stacked in their living room even as he knits another row on something hat shaped.

“You don’t, either,” Steph says helpfully from the kitchen. “Wait, dude, you know what you should do? You should totally get an etsy for those.” She waves a fork at Croissant, who is sitting regally on the roomba vacuum in a bright red capelet, because the heating’s been on the fritz all day, and Jason worries. “Rich people would pay for that stuff. It’s handmade, it’s authentic, it’s local, okay, rich people eat that stuff up with a shovel.”

“Like I have time to maintain an etsy,” Jason mutters. Steph _pffs_.

“Look,” she says. “Babs would set it up, right? And you can get Boy Wonder number three over there” — she waves vaguely in Tim’s direction, and he looks up in interest — “to take the pictures and make them flattering. And yours truly would cheerfully pack and ship anything you sell for a reasonable cut of the profits and some brownies once in a while.”

Jason squints suspiciously over his knitting needles. “You sound like you’ve thought this through.”

“Jason,” Steph says seriously, “you cannot stop crafting. I’d stage an intervention, but it’s frankly adorable, and I’ve got money with Dick on when you’ll start knitting gun cozies. Really, it’s only a matter of time.”

“She’s right,” Tim offers. “Not necessarily about the gun cozies, but the etsy shop’s a good idea. Let’s give it a shot.”

Jason frowns, and finishes the thing that is, in fact, a hat. He whistles to Croissant, who jumps off the roomba with a clatter and trots over to him, ears pointing out absurdly. “C’mere,” he mutters, and pets her gently while affixing the hat to her head. She grins up at him, tail wagging, and vanishes in search of the roomba or Taco.

“Okay,” Jason says at last, “yeah. Let’s see how it goes.”

“Fantastic.” Steph beams. “And, Jason — do me a solid and knit a gun cozy sooner rather than later, would you?”

 

The etsy shop, to no one’s surprise but Jason’s, does well. Almost alarmingly well, in fact. The four tubs Jason had accumulated over the past eight months sells out within a week and a half, and dogs all over Gotham’s financial district are suddenly sporting soft, warm, colorful knitwear at all times. Jason knits what he wants, Tim photographs it on Croissant or Taco or, on a few memorable occasions, Steph and Cass, after Jason had knitted through the night without stopping and realized in the morning that it was vaguely and irregularly shawl shaped. Someone pays a questionable amount of money for something, Steph gleefully ships it and brings back brownies to Cass, and somewhere, someone puts on a ridiculously comfortable sweater.

The hall closet is safe to open, the dogs are warm, and Jason kisses Tim through one of those beautiful crinkly smiles and — and it’s good, it’s great, it’s wonderful. Ridiculous, and wonderful.

**Author's Note:**

> the gun cozies are shamelessly borrowed from pushing daisies. my deepest respects to emerson cod. 
> 
> tim having a french bulldog was also sam's idea. i just stuck on a ridiculous name (at least 95%s steph's fault, btw) and threw in a zoomy vacuum thing.


End file.
